The October Light of August

by Robert John Jenson

  The October Light of August

  By Robert John Jenson

  Text Copyright © 2013 Robert J. Jenson

  Cover Photo Copyright © 2013 Robert J. Jenson

  All Rights Reserved

  To my lovely wife and daughters -

  Without you, all is lost.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  The sisters stared at the destruction in silence. Not that long ago an excited running commentary would have helped them deal with what they were seeing. But the last two years had taught them that keeping quiet had kept them alive.

  Still, the youngest one turned her head to her sister and exaggeratedly mouthed the words What. The. Fuuuuuck?

  Before them, the neighborhood they had once known had been burned to the ground. A neighborhood where they had ridden bikes, scribbled on the sidewalk with chalk, trick or treated, went to school, made friends, got in fights, played doorbell-ditch, kissed boys and learned to drive a car. Now, as far as they could see, it was a leveled moonscape of soggy ash and blackened timbers. Brick and block chimneys rose timidly from the ruins as if afraid to draw attention to themselves, while scorched and emaciated trees still tried to give the appearance of shelter.

  The sisters turned – one north, the other south – to survey the desolation. It appeared as if the fire had started at the edge of the parking lot, then swept west and south. North didn’t seem to be burned too badly – houses could still be seen beyond the strip mall. East, where they had hiked in from Idaho, there had been no indication of the devastation before them. Last year the massive plume of smoke could be seen across the state line, of course, and they had speculated on what was burning. Not in a million years did they think it could be...home. They both spun and stared back at the office building behind them: soot stained and looted, to be sure, but relatively whole and undamaged.

  It was a ten-story office building. All of the fire and security doors had been removed, its lower windows busted out, and it had the general neglect and abandonment they had seen everywhere they had traveled. Yet the foliage that surrounded the office complex seemed to be unburned. Spring rains had washed ash and soot to collect on horizontal surfaces, and the parking lot and alley supported a pasty-gray sludge that clung to their boots and pants cuffs.

  The older sister tipped her head down to whisper, “Do you think…?”

  As the younger woman began to shrug her shoulders, a flock of crows swept across the top of the building in a violent burst of wings and gravel-voiced cawing. They dropped in low and flew across the parking lot, around the southern side of the structure then back to perch in the dead trees at the edge of the lot, where they muttered and called out their complaints.

  The older sister stared at them for awhile, remembering an elderly neighbor who claimed that the birds knew when strangers were in the area. But we used to live here! she thought. She recalled that a flock of crows was called a murder, and she scowled at them. Probably a bit unjust, she decided, but saw no reason to excuse crows from all the unfairness these days. The crows were still here. Her neighbor’s house was gone.

  She watched her sister stare at the birds, and wondered what she was thinking. Her younger sibling had never been very nostalgic, or tended to romanticize situations. But she usually found the silver lining in misfortune, and was quick to bounce back from most defeats. That trait had been severely tested the last couple of years, of course, and she was afraid it had been crushed to a bloody smear.

  They both stood silently for several minutes, and she realized they were just listening to the environment. The crows didn’t seem particularly agitated, and no tell-tale shuffling or quiet moans alerted them to the presence of the dead. It was a damp spring afternoon, and all sounds seemed to be heavy, soggy and muted.

  Her sister turned to her, caught her staring, and mouthed “What?”

  She was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “Guess it’s time to scout the building. See if he’s still here or…”

  Her sister nodded, business-like. They turned to the empty doorway that framed the gloom of the interior. Both women knew that the stairwell leading to the upper floors was several yards down the hallway, so if anything was hiding in there it couldn’t just reach out and grab them. They flanked either side of the doorway and let their eyes adjust. When she was certain she could see well enough down the hallway to discern piles of trash and debris from...anything else, she gave a soft click of her tongue, as if nickering to a horse. Nothing. She did it again, louder, and was rewarded with a soft rustling in the depths of the building.

  Aw, crap.

  Her sister heard it too, and rolled her eyes disgustedly. How often had she done that in response to something their father had said ages ago, and gotten in trouble for it?

  “Let it come to us, yeah? No shooting unless we need to,” she whispered.

  “I know,” her sister replied impatiently.

  The dead guy shuffled into view at the end of the hallway – he must have been in the lobby, just…being a dead guy, she guessed. She had often wondered what it was like to be one of the living dead. A ghoul. A zombie… She remembered the arguments over the nomenclature of the undead in the early days, and how pointless it seemed now. She uncoiled a length of twine she pulled from her jacket pocket, looped it twice around her left hand, and flicked the other end over to her sister who snatched it deftly. They both reached for the crowbars strapped on their packs, and waited as the dead guy continued his journey along the corridor. They looked at each other, grinned, and then popped the safety straps loose on the holsters that held their pistols. Quiet, yes. But you never knew…

  She risked one last peek – and almost burst out laughing. Oh, you have got to be kidding me, she thought. Where do these come from so late in the day? Her sister read her face and shot her a questioning look, but she waved the crowbar – not now – and they crouched down, well back from either side of the opening, and drew the twine taught across the doorway, shin height.

  The dead man lurched through the doorway, hit the twine, and immediately toppled over into the alley – towards her sister. The older woman tugged at the cord with all her strength, hoping it would pull the dead guy up short. Her sister was on her feet as the zombie hit the pavement, and the crows exploded from the trees in a shotgun-blast of cawing and flapping wings. Her sister had already slammed her crowbar down viciously at the dead man’s head, so she took her swat, then her sister once more. She raised the crowbar again, but was afraid that they might begin to strike pavement and make too much noise so she held her hand up to stay her sister.

  They backed away a few paces, looked around quickly, then observed the crushed skull of the dead man. His right foot gave a spastic twitch so her sister darted in and gave him another two quick whacks in the head. Then grabbing the crowbar in both hands and raising her arms high, gave a solid blow across the back of his neck.

  Well that ought to do it, the older sister mused. She knew they should take the head off to feel like they finished the job. Still, it was done. She released a shaky laugh that had been building since she had seen the dead man, and her sister grinned at her but still didn’t seem to get the joke.

  “Look at him,” she whispered. “He still had his glasses on!”

  The younger sister scanned the corpse, noted the black skinny jeans, red Toms, retro sweater and Buddy Holly glasses that had fallen off with the tumble to the ground.

  “I imagine,” she said, adopting a sober and bored expression, “He was a zombie before it was c
ool.”

  The elder woman began to giggle helplessly, and her sister joined in. They knew this was dangerous – their guard was down and they could not focus, but they could not suppress the spasms of hilarity that wanted to burst from them full-throated. They hugged as they tried to shush themselves, and the crows flew in lazy circles over the parking lot, refusing to share in the joke. Their course calls tried to bring back order and sensibility to the scene.

  Once this was something that would have been a running joke for days and weeks, something their friends could have joined in on Facebook and Tumblr, with pictures Instagramed to potential meme heights. Now those days were gone, and they didn’t look like they would be back any time soon.

  With shuddering breaths and a few last quiet coughs and giggles, they composed themselves and automatically surveyed the area. Except for the crows, the drama seemed to be done outside. They grabbed the dead hipster by his heels, dragging him around the corner and into the gloom of a patio cover where a day care used to be. Neither felt like taking the thing’s head off right then.

  The older one was thinking over their trip-line gambit, and wondered if they were pushing their luck with it. Her sister was unafraid at times to the point of recklessness, and it worried her – all that was needed was a quick bite, or even scratch, and that would be it. Now would not be the time to talk about it, though. Her sister would take it as an insult, since it had been her idea to trip up the dead. She didn’t want to get in an argument with her right now - the younger woman was burying old ghosts at last, and her humor and sparkle was emerging again.

  They returned to the empty doorway and again peered inside, letting their eyes adjust. After a few clicks, whistles and a low “Yoo-hoo!” that threatened to make them start giggling again, they decided it was safe to start the slow and tentative exploration of the building. Sliding along the wall opposite the opening to the stairwell, they noted it was clear and switched sides, avoiding a utility closet. Almost all the doors in the building had been removed – they had noticed that last summer on their first reconnaissance of the office building.

  The older woman searched for the peace sign her sister had drawn on the wall next to the stairwell. There it was, along with a new symbol – the sideways-smiley emoticon people used to put in their text messages and emails. She pointed it out to her sister, and the girl smiled.

  “He saw it,” the younger woman whispered, and seemed content with that bit of knowledge.

  “I’m not sure if we should try calling out - see if he’s still here?” the older woman said. “I mean, he talked about the 'traps' he made…” Of course she didn't like the idea of making unnecessary noise. But she didn't like the idea of surprising anyone either.

  “Those were in the houses, though,” her sister said.

  “Yeah. But we don’t know what he’s been up to since last summer. He may have felt the need to booby-trap this place too.”

  Her sister thought about that, then shook her head. “I got the impression he didn't want to attract attention to this place - that he lived here. If any raiders noticed his traps, that would make them look all the harder for a stash, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. I think what happened out there,” the older sister gestured back out the doorway to the ruins of the neighborhood, “had something to do with him. And if he went out in a blaze of glory, do you think he could have set traps in here too?”

  The younger woman shook her head. “I think you’re giving him too much credit.”

  “Okay. But….” She gestured out the door again.

  “But if that was done by him – intentionally – why didn’t he take out this building too?”

  “I... Fair enough. So - do you think he’s here, or not?”

  “I don't think so.”

  The elder sibling considered that, and nodded her head. “Me too. We sweep it and see what he’s left behind.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Five floors, with no monsters – living or dead. Much had been left as they had seen it last summer. On the sixth floor, they decided to call out, and were met with silence. They looked in his hiding place up in the dropped ceiling, and a note pinned to his sleeping bag suspended from the floor joists above was impossible to miss. On it was drawn a sideways smiley and a short message written next to it:

  Check out the cafe, main floor.

  And be VERY careful – I could still be around.

  “Well that doesn’t sound good,” the older sister muttered.

  “I think we should finish the other floors, plus the roof, don’t you think?” the younger girl asked.

  So they did. While time had only weathered the building more, it didn’t look like anyone else had been living there in quite awhile. They found a few more of his supplies on the roof – gratefully swigging from one of the many water bottles stashed away in an air-conditioning housing, and shared a protein bar. It had been a long day, after all.

  They estimated they might have another two hours of daylight left, and carefully made their way down the stairwell to the main floor.

  They had peeked into the café before heading up, noted it was much the same as before – looted and trashed. Now they stood in the doorway and peered around the room. The plate glass on the outside wall had been smashed out long ago, and the floor was littered with accumulated filth. All food items had been taken, the cash register smashed in a corner. A lone bar stool still stood upright behind the front counter. The older sister didn’t know what they were supposed to be looking for, and she felt mild irritation creeping towards frustration. She was used to looking for something they could use to defend themselves. Shelter themselves. Feed themselves. Not much else mattered these days. She supposed the chrome bar stool would be handy to smash –

  “There,” said her sister, and pointed to the back counter. Wedged between a mangled espresso machine and an empty desert display was a gallon-sized freezer bag that had two University Notebook writing tablets tucked inside. Each tablet was marked numerically – a big “1” on the top tablet, the other sporting a “2”.

  Digging them out of the plastic bag, the older sister flipped through the first book, fascinated despite her earlier exasperation. She moved on to the second volume, and noticed how the handwriting grew increasingly erratic.

  “Jesus – I think these are his memoirs or something,” she whispered.

  Her sister considered it, and then said brightly, “Hey – maybe we’re in there!”

  The optimistic tone of that made her heart clench and her eyes tear up. It had sounded so much like something her sister would have said back before the world went nuts. She quickly turned away so her sister wouldn’t see that she wasn’t as big of a bad-ass as she appeared to be, and noticed a third volume laying on the floor behind the counter. It was a bit waterlogged and filthy from all the debris, but still readable. Doodles and sketches began to fill many of the pages – crows and dead people, for the most part. But some looked like valiant heroes with swords or ray-guns fighting all sorts of monsters and villains. The drawings weren't that good, but had a sincere quality to them that she liked. What looked like dried blood spots dotted some of the final pages, and that made her pause in her examination.

  Aw, crap, she thought. If we got the fever from any smear of blood we ever got near we would be one of the dead by now. Still, you couldn't help but be a little nervous, and she would be cautious. She started to flip to the last entry, and then shut the notebook with a sharp clap.

  Damn it, she thought. We could use a bit of a diversion for a change! Let’s not spoil the ending…

  She looked at her sister and smiled. “What do you say we make camp up on the roof, and do some reading in the morning?”

  I hated the guy on sight. The bastard had me cornered! True, he didn’t know it. Not yet at least. And he was one of those – 'the warrior.' You know the type – even before the world went to hell you would see him with a damned knife strapped to his belt, wearing baggy shorts wit
h a camo jacket, along with romper-stomper boots. Had a tattoo that he’d tell you meant he was in 'special forces' once and couldn’t say anything else about it. The pony tail was to show you he didn’t work for the government anymore, the aviator sunglasses let you know he was cool. And the thought of the world ending just greased his zipper. Now he was living the dream.

  I didn’t see them as much as I used to – at least they didn’t tend to make it up here to the north side as often anymore. But occasionally they did. Not many came in from the north as far as I knew. Anyone up there was still hunkered down and defending the home front, I bet. And anyone coming down from Canada? I can’t imagine that. Still, there were those girls from Oregon I met, so you never knew. He might have been scouting for anyone on the south side of the river. But really? After all this time, I still had no idea what was going on over there.

  It didn’t matter. He was here now, and I just knew he would be causing trouble. He had a gun – of course he did! Guns, actually. I wouldn’t know a Glock from a Walther PPK, but he had a handgun in his fist, an assault rifle across his back along with his customized killing tool of choice. Usually they were machetes with God knows what welded together to be the ultimate dead killing tool. He had all manner of knives strapped within easy reach. I suppose that wasn’t as dumb as his pony tail (too easy to grab), but I preferred to keep my distance than resort to knives – at least with the dead. I figure if it came down to me in a knife fight with the living I wouldn’t do so well anyway.

  I was crouched behind a dumpster – one of those industrial-sized monstrosities that several businesses shared. It was shoved into the corner of the back parking lot, hemmed in by an L-shaped wooden fence that separated the lot from the residential neighborhood. I didn’t like the idea of hiding behind the dumpster with my back to the fence, but it was the best I could do until the guy either went into or around the office building. I was just lucky he hadn’t spotted me. It wasn’t like me to have my guard down, but… I guess I had my guard down. Look, I’m probably lucky to have lived as long as I have. When both the living and the dead were after you, I think dodging them for a year and a half is pretty impressive shit. Especially when you aren’t freakin’ Rambo. And when it came down to it, the dead were easier to avoid these days – unless some jackass showed up looking to pump a few rounds into them and stir things up. Hell, they would sooner shoot a live person than a dead one, it seemed.